


Diamonds

by Calebski



Series: The Misfits [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-13
Updated: 2019-10-26
Packaged: 2020-10-17 18:21:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20625488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calebski/pseuds/Calebski
Summary: Prompt: [Harry x Daphne] Diamondsfor @gwen-devilliers





	1. Part One

“Diamonds?” Harry asked as he stared at the ring between his fingers as if it might be able to answer his desperate query. “Are you sure?”

“Of course, I’m not sure,” Hermione sighed. “I told you, multiple times, that I was the very last person you should take ring shopping.” Hermione paused as Luna - who was also along for the ride and ill-equipped for the task at hand - added a gaudy, eighth ring to her left hand. “Well, maybe not quite the last, but I’m still not useful. What would I know about what Daphne would like in a ring?”

“You get along now, don’t you?” Harry asked with an unexpected hint of panic. _ Had he somehow failed to observe that his best friend and his girlfriend hated each other? _

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Of course we do, we both love you, Harry, so we try. But we casually like each other, we’re not close. I have no idea what she would like as her engagement ring. You should have asked Draco or Blaise.” Harry made a face. “You could have asked Theo if the others were not an option.”

Harry placed the ring back on the ostentatious pillow the assistant was still holding out and gave her an apologetic shrug. He took a short look around the room before he went back to looking at the cabinet he had been returning to all morning. 

“You know I would never ask Malfoy for help, especially not with this. Can you imagine how insufferably smug he would have been.”

“Yes,” Hermione replied seriously, “with great ease, smug is one of Draco’s specialities. But, smug or not, he would have made sure you got a good ring. He might have been tempted to pull a prank, but his general snobbiness would have prevented him from letting you buy subpar jewellery.”

Harry eyed the significant rock on Hermione’s finger and conceded there was nothing ‘subpar’ about her engagement ring. When Ron had seen it for the first time, after the ferret had unexpectedly proposed to their best friend, he had asked where the figure skaters that came with it were. 

Harry rubbed a hand through his hair and tried not to panic. _ This was all supposed to be on gut feeling, wasn’t it? _ He was supposed to know Daphne so well that he would know exactly what the right ring was without even trying. _ What did it mean if he didn’t know? Did it imply he didn’t love her enough? Was it a sign she would say no? _

“Harry,” Luna’s voice chimed from the other side of the shop. Seemingly unconcerned by his dilemma, she was placing a second necklace around herself and dancing in front of the mirror to watch it sparkle. 

“Luna, I’m a little busy right now.”

“I can see that,” she replied, though Harry didn’t know what she meant as she wasn’t looking at him. “Why don’t you just buy the vintage sapphire and diamond one you keep looking at, and then we can go to lunch.”

Harry stared down at the ring and wished he didn’t feel so indecisive. “How do I know it’s the right one? I don’t even know why I keep looking at it.”

“Of course you do, it’s the same blue as her eyes,” Luna said as if she was talking to a small child before swapping the necklace for a less dramatic one. 

Harry looked again, and sure enough Luna was right, nestled between two large diamonds was a sapphire the size of his thumbnail in the precisely the same mystifyingly captivating blue of Daphne’s eyes. 

Harry smiled. “Can we take this one?” he asked in the general direction of the counter. 

“Oh, thank Merlin,” Hermione muttered. “Come on, Luna, let’s start getting you out of all of this stuff.”

Harry barely noticed. He had a full five minutes of relief until he realised he still had to plan a proposal. 


	2. Part Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: could we get a shot at Draco and Hermione’s proposal story in this universe?  
for MadeupMeeple

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: this was suggested after I posted Diamonds and I couldn't help myself.

“It’s preposterous,” Hermione muttered while shaking her head and Draco’s hesitant, hopeful smile faltered. 

“Preposterous?” he asked in a strangled voice, and Hermione’s head changed direction. It was no longer absently toing and froing from side to side. Now it was nodding, violently. 

“Yes. It’s ridiculous, insane, and not to mention almost mind-blowingly excessive.”

“Excessive?” Draco asked, shouting now. _ Who did the bloody witch think she was? _ He pulled himself up off his knee with a cursory wipe of his freshly laundered trousers and glared down at her. “And what exactly, my dear _ sweet _ love, is _ excessive _ about me wanting to marry you?”

Hermione looked startled for a moment and then she blinked several times. She looked up from the ring box into Draco’s eyes and then back down again. 

“Nothing,” she admitted softly, moving to step towards him. “There is nothing excessive about that at all. Though, a little unexpected maybe. I wasn’t sure that you would… that you would want to-”

Hermione looked awkward, and Draco got the sense she was reverting into that insecure place she disappeared into sometimes, where he was the boy that had shouted at her, and she was the girl that wouldn’t have tempted him if he was on fire, and she was in possession of the last water on earth. 

Draco felt his temper deflate, which conversely, made it reignite again. She didn’t deserve him calming down. He had every right to be as angry as he wanted.

He had planned it all perfectly to be just what Hermione would want. A lovely but not overly expensive dinner, at a beautiful but not flashy restaurant. A walk to her favourite used book store after desert to ‘walk off their meal’ where he had brought her a book that came from the money he would have liked to spend earlier in the evening, but he knew how to pick his battles. At least he thought he had. Then he’d come back to her flat and opened a nice bottle of wine - one he had hidden there the week before - then got down on one knee. 

No showiness, no audiences, no dramatic overtures and no flowery language. And she’d called it excessive.

“The ring Draco,” Hermione finally said when it looked as if Draco might never speak again. “The ring is excessive.”

Draco looked down at the jewellery he had chosen and could concede that it was a little on the large side, but what had she expected? Hermione had spent enough painful lunches with his mother to know what was regarded as ‘everyday wear’ in the Malfoy household, and it wasn’t as if he would have brought her trash. 

“The ring is perfectly in keeping with what would be expected of me,” he replied rather crisply, trying his best not to sneer. 

“But what about for me?”

Draco snorted. “If I had brought you anything less people would have said-”

Hermione sighed. “They would have said you were not bothering because I’m a Muggle-born, or that you gave me a trinket to keep getting into my knickers, but you had no interest in actually marrying me.”

“Something like that,” Draco agreed, beginning to feel slightly sick. 

Hermione eyed the ring more speculatively for a moment and then her fingers reached out, coming close to retrieving it before Draco pressed the lid shut. 

“Hermione,” he implored softly, “you realise you haven’t answered me yet, don’t you?”

“Oh,” Hermione replied, and Draco could see in seconds how the situation flashed before her eyes and then she looked guilty. “I’m so sorry, Draco. I was going to say yes immediately when I saw you kneeling there, and then you opened the box and nearly took my eye out with a diamond.”

Draco tried to roll his eyes, he even attempted a smug look but he couldn’t press his lips closed enough. He grinned, so full it was almost painful. Immediately, she said_ immediately. _ Logically he knew Hermione loved him; she wasn’t exactly adept at hiding her emotions but still, _ immediately_. Not ‘after I’ve thought about it’, not ‘I have to consult my worthless friends’, _ immediately_. 

He pulled the witch into his grasp and held her against his chest. Once she had settled Draco deftly pulled the ring out of the box and carefully placed it on her appropriate finger. Then he let out a sigh that had been building for the two years since she had walked out of a Hogwarts reunion to get some air, and he had followed her. 

“I love you, you know?” Hermione said into his thick jumper, her words coming out muffled against the heavy knit. He’d worn it mainly because she’d said she liked it once. Draco wondered if she remembered that. 

“I know. I love you too.”

Hermione pulled away from him as much as Draco’s greedy hands would allow and twisted her hand back and forth, so her new accessory caught the light. “I might learn to love it.”

“You’d better,” Draco said, rubbing her back. “I brought matching earrings.” 

She hit him in the chest and began a rant about his spending habits, but Draco barely listened. She had said yes. The evening has surpassed all of his excessive expectations. 


	3. Part Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Could we see everyone’s reaction to the engagement/ring? Like the Malfoys Weasleys etc.  
for TimeRose

Hermione squared her shoulders as she walked down the familiar, overgrown path to the Burrow. Her new ring, the ring that declared she would one day be Draco’s wife, weighted down her finger. Hermione wondered for the hundredth time if she should have tried to break the news by owl, but then she shushed herself. She was many things, but she wasn’t a coward. If the wolves on the other side of the door got the slightest notion that she was ashamed of her choice, Hermione would never hear the end of it. She needed to start as she meant to go on. Head held high, resolve on her face and in her heart. 

All too soon, Hermione ran out of cobbles. She said a silent prayer to a God she didn’t believe in before she opened the door to face the music. 

* * *

An hour later, most of the initial chaos had calmed. Mr Weasley had righted the knocked down chairs, and Mrs Weasley had swapped the alcohol around the place for hot drinks. Hermione had wondered whether giving them a cup of scalding water each was a good idea, but she had said nothing. 

Ron had been taken to another room by Lavender when he was unable to keep his mouth shut despite the protests of most of his brothers. Hermione’s former dormmate had brushed past her a little harder than necessary when they left, but Hermione had hardly registered it. Lavender had her pity, but she doubted the blonde would want to know that. She had spent too long explaining again and again that there was nothing between her and Ron. At this point, Lavender’s insecurity was her own to manage as was her boyfriend's temper. Hermione had long ago washed her hands of all of it. 

Hermione felt herself sag in the quiet of the room. She could still hear Ron’s vicious accusations fly. The rest had been equally surprised - though arguably less volatile - and Hermione had begun to feel irritated. She had been dating Draco for _two years _ and while she hadn’t been expecting him to propose theirs had hardly been a causal association. _ Would they have risked as much upset if it had been? _

Harry was still looking green around the gills, and Hermione felt his disgust pricking at her skin even more unbearably than Ron’s rage. 

“I accepted Daphne,” she gritted out, and he turned to look at her with awkward indignation.

“I know, but Mione, _ it’s Malfoy,_” Harry whined. 

Hermione’s hand bit into the worn tabletop, and she felt her ring again, weighing her down and reminding her of why she was doing all this. 

“No, Harry,” she said tiredly. “It’s _me_. He’s _my _ choice.”

“Of all people, did it have to be him?”

“Yes,” Hermione replied, determined not to explain herself. They didn’t deserve it. “I’m not changing my mind. So I suggest you get on board with this.”

“Or what?” Harry asked softly, and Hermione just let the words hang between them. She didn’t need to say anymore. She had made her choice. 

“Personally, I think it’s lovely, though Draco certainly doesn’t mind spending his money does he,” Mrs Weasley said as she stirred another cup of tea and sat at the table, gesturing at Hermione’s ring with a nod of her head. “A wedding,” she sighed, “I can’t wait. You’ll look beautiful, my dear.”

Hermione imagined Molly’s goodwill would sour rather dramatically when she was apprised of precisely what Narcissa thought comprised a ‘simple wedding’. 

Narcissa Malfoy had taken one look at the ring her son had picked and within two seconds had pronounced it ‘acceptable’. Hermione had wanted to quip about how _ her _acceptance was still pending. But she held it in. She was getting rather used to holding it in around his family. It being her every thought and feeling. Hermione supposed she should feel resentful, but Draco had made concessions in his way. She still remembered how tough he had found babysitting Teddy with her and yet he had done it because she had asked. There was an honour to him, one that he would never admit to, but she saw it. 

“Anyway, I best be going,” Hermione said, trying for an unconcerned tone as if they had had a regular visit and not one that had resulted in an explosion of revulsion and accusation. 

She got to the door before Ginny caught her and wrapped her in a much-needed hug. “I’m happy for you, Hermione,” the redhead whispered. “But be careful of that,” she said, pointing to Hermione’s engagement ring. “You could go to blow your nose and take your eye out!”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Thank you, Ginny, but remember to be nice to me. I’m the only thing that stands between you and what Narcissa Malfoy would call an _ understated _ bridesmaid dress.” 

Ginny scowled, and Hermione laughed. 

* * *

Hermione had only made it as far as the tree line around the Weasley property when she sensed that she wasn’t alone. “Draco,” she said tiredly, and almost immediately he appeared in front of her, casually slipping off his coat and wrapping it around her shoulders.

“You’re crying,” he observed dispassionately, his tone too controlled to be believed. Hermione didn’t ask how long he had been there. She should have known better earlier when he had said he was happy for her to go alone. 

Hermione raised her hands to her face and was mildly surprised when her fingers came back wet. She hadn’t realised. “What is it you always tell me?” she said in what she hoped was a sunny voice. “Don’t let them see how much they affect you. I don’t think I started until I came out, though I’m not sure.”

“How was it?”

Hermione sighed, “Not good.”

Draco pulled her into his arms and Hermione stiffened before she sagged into his grip. He wasn’t usually one for public displays of affection. Draco could be so emotional with her that it flayed her raw, but only ever alone. She nearly warned him that they could probably be seen from the house, but she stopped herself. He must have known that already. In some small way, she imagined it was an act of defiance. He already knew all they would have said, and most of it centred on how he didn’t love her. He wanted to prove them all wrong. 

“They finally put you off me?” he asked dryly. 

Hermione smiled against his shirt. “No. Not now, not ever.”

Draco’s grip turned so hard it was almost painful, but Hermione suppressed her wince. 

“Can I take you home?”

Hermione pressed her fingers into his jumper and swallowed. The Draco of two years ago - if she was honest even the Draco of last year - would have drawn his wand by now, he would have threatened to go in there and _ make _ them apologise. The Draco of now, the one that wanted to _ marry _her, his parents be damned, just wanted her to be happy. 

“Yes please,” she said firmly and felt him nod against the top of her head. 

They apparated away. 

* * *

Ginny turned from her position at the window and looked at Harry standing next to her with a concerned frown pulling down his eyebrows. 

“Well, Harry, you’re going to have to do a fair bit to make it up to your friend.”

The chastisement in her tone made Harry wince. “What do you suggest?”

Ginny grinned. Harry had dated her long enough to be very frightened of that look. “I think you should ask Draco.”

Harry rubbed his hand over his face. “Should I take Ron as well, do you think?”

“Not unless you want him to die, Harry,” Ginny replied sweetly before she scampered off to help her mother with the washing up. 


	4. Part Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: I would definitely like to see Harry approach Draco!  
for Jeraly

Draco looked over his large desk at Harry Potter, leant back in one of his office chairs without an apparent care in the world, and tried to control the urge to flip the furniture over and pummel the idiot into oblivion. 

It had been the same ever since the very first day of Hogwarts; one refused handshake had laid the first foundations of what was now a deep-seated hatred. Draco had been willing to put it all aside, for the sake of the witch he had fallen in love with. He would have gritted his teeth as they got through wedding preparations and even tolerated Potter giving her away. Anything to make _ her _ happy. That burst of charitable feeling had withered and died as soon as he had collected Hermione after her _ experience _ at the Burrow. 

Hermione had insisted going on her own ‘_it’s happy news_’ she had said, ‘_they’ll be pleased for me, for us_’. Draco had been able to feel her shake as she had sagged against him next to a dilapidated fence and poorly maintained trees. It had worked him up to a level of impotent rage he hadn’t felt since he’d seen his mother threatened during the war. 

Three weeks it had taken Potter to reach out to him, three weeks of unanswered owls and missed floo calls before the-boy-who-lived but hadn’t grown up, finally decided to face up to what he had done. 

Draco thought he had suffered through the worst of Potter during school. There was nothing quite like the frustrated anguish of your schoolyard enemy becoming the saviour of your world. He’d expected to put the whole mess behind him once he had been exonerated. The most Draco had expected to see of Potter was a distant sighting at some function they were both attending. Then he had run into Hermione one day, and her reserved civility had goaded him into asking her to dinner. Honestly, he had wanted to see if that would be the thing that would make her shrink away from him. But she had raised her chin with defiance he should have known to look for, and accepted. He’d not been able to stop himself falling in love with her. 

Draco had wanted to burn the short note when Potter had sent it; the term too little too late had been invented for the brief message the bespectacled nuisance had thought sufficient to gain entry into Draco’s diary. But then he had thought about Hermione’s pale sadness as the realisation that her best friends couldn’t be happy for her had settled in. 

Draco had been waiting for her to pack her bags ever since lunch at the Weasley’s had gone so awry. Honestly, he’d been half expecting her to wake up one day and leave since they had first moved in together, but this time Weasel and Scarhead had given her a reason. Yet, she hadn’t. Hermione had stayed, waving off any suggestion he made about her possible regrets with a weighty point to her now adorned finger. Draco hated to admit it, but the least he could do was to offer to make amends. But there was no way he was budging without an assurance Potter would set it right with Hermione. 

Potter twisted uncomfortably in his seat and Draco glared at him. He’d called the meeting, so it was his prerogative to speak first, and all he had done was refuse a drink - that Draco definitely hadn’t thought about poisoning - and fidgeted in his seat since arriving. 

Potter eventually settled and then glanced around the study till his eyes fell to a spot behind Draco’s head and he blanched. Draco didn’t need to turn around to know what he was looking at. He knew all too well. It was a framed picture of himself and Hermione, sitting on an empty section of his bookcase, taken on their first holiday together. Draco could picture it without having to glance; he had studied it often. The sun had brought out freckles over the bridge of Hermione’s nose, and she’d had to braid her monstrous hair back so she could see. He’d never seen anyone more beautiful. Draco had burnt the tops of his ears on the first day, and he’d forgotten to pack the hair gel he preferred, so his hair fell permanently over his eyes. 

They looked so young in that photo it was like the previous years of fear and hardship hadn’t happened. He knew she was the reason he looked so carefree; he hoped the same could have been said in reverse. Draco had it framed as soon as they got back and displayed it in whatever room he was currently using most. It moved from the kitchen to the living room, to his bedroom with him during the week, and it made the rounds for a whole year. Until the flesh and blood woman had moved in, and he hadn’t needed a constant reminder of her place in his life, not when she was curled up in an armchair or sat at the kitchen island. So he had moved the beloved photo to his study. A place his father had kept all of his more candid pictures of his mother, a practise he hoped to replicate. One of the only from the lessons his father had taught him. 

Draco had picked the location for their meeting very deliberately. Potter seemed to think he could sweep up this mess as nothing more than a little disagreement and pretend as if nothing had happened. Not on Draco’s watch. As far as he was concerned, Potter needed to face the realities of Hermione’s life. She had lived with him for a year, and neither of her supposed ‘closest friends’ had visited. 

Others had, of course, in fact, Draco felt as if there were an almost constant stream of people that came through his previously silent flat, but as they were mainly pleasant and certainly less messy than the women he had given a key to, he found he didn’t mind overly. 

“If you hurt her…” Potter began finally, and Draco just about resisted the urge to whack his head against the desk. _ Maybe this would go quicker if he was concussed? _

“That wasn’t why I let you come,” he replied dryly. _ You’re supposed to be apologising you self important twat. _

Potter shrugged. “I think we need to get some things straight. If you are serious about marrying her.”

Draco bit the inside of his cheek. “I’m sorry, Potter, I know you were dragged up by unfeeling Muggles, so you don’t always understand social cues. Buying a ring, _ proposing, _ it tends to denote a serious desire to enter the marital state.”

“Drop the sarcasm, ferret,” Harry spat through gritted teeth. “I’ve not got the patience for your BS.”

“You don’t scare me,” Draco replied blandly, Potter’s posturing had become annoying to him a long time ago. 

“I should,” Harry assured.

Draco scoffed, “Once you’ve had the dark lord…”

Harry cut him off with a hard glint in his eyes. “You mean the one I killed?”

“Did no one ever teach you that it’s crass to go on and on about your achievements?” Draco replied. “Anyway, from what I understand, you had help.”

The mention of Hermione cut through the tension in the room, giving both of them a much-needed chance to breathe. 

“How is she?” Harry asked, and Draco was pleased to see that he had eventually come to ask what should have been his first question.

“Upset but not surprised, and who can blame her.”

Potter fidgeted again, but this time he was either failing to mask as well or no longer cared what Draco thought of him. “She’s never gone this long without speaking to me.”

“Though you have gone this long without speaking to her?”

Potter looked at his lap, and Draco had another of his lingering boyhood questions answered. 

“Mal... _ Draco_,” Potter said, looking as if the word physically pained him. “What can I do?”

“You’re asking me?” Draco said, sitting back in his seat with some surprise. 

“Try not to enjoy this too much,” Harry said bitterly, and Draco bit his tongue. That the idiot in front of him actually thought he could say anything that would make him enjoy his company was farcical. He thought of Hermione as she had left that day, her hair pulled up in a bun on the top of her head, tendril’s escaping in front of her ears. She’d looked so hopeful when he’d said he was going to meet with Harry. 

Draco sucked in a huge breath and thought of the simple, elegant, malleable pureblood girl he was supposed to have married. She wouldn't have come with undesirable friends. But then, she wouldn’t have been Hermione either. 

“Potter, like it or not, Hermione is going to be my wife.”

“She could always change her mind,” Harry replied smugly.

Logically Draco knew Harry had no idea he had prodded at his biggest insecurity, but it didn’t temper his response. He had been pierced, and if he had picked up anything about duelling, it was that you always hit back with equal or greater force. 

“What, like young Ginerva, did?”

There had been rumours of course, about the break up no one had seen coming. He imagined Potter wasn’t particularly cut up about it, but Draco knew Ginny had been the one to sound the death knell and that Potter was prideful enough for that to bother him. 

There was silence for a few moments before both of them reigned in their temper. 

“I apologise,” Draco said eventually, “that was probably too far.” _ He half meant it. _

“You think?”

Draco eyed Potter coldly. “You hurt my future wife, Potter. I would be well within my rights to see you on a duelling platform.”

Harry smirked. “Where I would win.”

“One again, you miss the point.”

There was silence again, and Draco finally gave in to his internal desire to have a drink, there was only so much stupidy he could be expected to face in one day. 

“She’s not answering my letters,” Potter said as his back was turned. 

“I noticed.”

Draco sat down slowly in his chair and pushed his hair out of his eyes. “Don’t apologise until you mean it. She’s very good at knowing if your lying and you better bloody mean it, Potter. You hurt her. If I were you, I would suggest finding a way of getting on board with his because I’m not going anywhere.”

“I’m never going to like you.”

“At last, something we can agree on.”

“But I can probably… I don’t know… tolerate you, for her.”

Potter looked at him with all of his assumed morality shining in his eyes and Draco had never wanted to hurt someone so badly. “So selfless,” he managed without spitting. “If that's all, I’d like you to get out.”

“With pleasure.”

Potter left, and Draco poured himself another drink, he just hoped the bastard managed an apology sufficient enough to cheer Hermione up and soon. 

He turned around in his chair and toasted the happy image the pair of them presented. “Thank Merlin you’re worth all this Granger.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I currently have one more outstanding prompt for this one. Hopefully will have it up soon. 


	5. Part Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Would you consider writing a scene with Narcissa? I fell in love with her in Ready for the Storm.  
for mystripedskirt 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Narcissa isn’t as likeable in this, it's just what came out :/ I have one more prompt for this AU, should have this up soon.

Hermione forced herself to look down at the white dress she had been asked to try and blew out a long breath through her clenched teeth. Stealing her resolve, she straightened her neck and regarded herself in the full-length mirror. She tried to smile. If she’d heard one thing more than any other during wedding preparations, it was that brides were supposed to look _ radiant _when they got married and that their expressions were as joyful as they were natural. Hermione tried to look joyful; the concentration required made her look worried. 

She fiddled with a rough piece of applique lace and tried to decide whether this dress, the tenth she had so far tried, was actually hideous or whether it just appeared that way because it was so unlike her it gave her the appearance of a child raiding her mothers dressing up box. All she was missing was the perfect circles of blush on her cheeks, and a long stretched out pearl necklace thrown about her shoulders.

Hermione tried to hold the bodice closer to her chest to see what it might have looked like if it remotely fit, but it was no use. She was sure she would be crocodile clipped into place as soon as she left the confines of the dressing room, but to her mind, this dress was beyond a dramatic alteration. 

Simple, that was what she had asked for, simple. _ Was that so hard? _

Hermione had seen a dress in one of the magazines Ginny had brought for her, it was a bit like a slip but made out of the most beautiful flowing silk in bright white. It was nothing like the frumpy mess she currently had on. She wanted a dress she could pull over her head without needing two or three people to ‘strap her in’. A gown that she could move in and trail over grass as the day wore on. One that would be suited to Fleur braiding her hair, and Luna weaving flowers through. One that looked like her. 

“Hermione.”

Her soon to be mother in law’s voice called from behind the thick velvet curtain of the dressing room, and Hermione knew better than to dally. She sucked in a breath, almost as violently large as the one she had exhaled previously, and walked down an over stylised corridor into a small, plush sitting room. 

Hermione didn’t make eye contact as she came in, bundled up ample skirts in hand. The immaculate, French-sounding witch that owned the establishment they had spent the better part of a morning in, gestured for her to stand on a stool and Hermione did so, trying her best not to trip up on the excessive skirts.

She looked at her toes poking through the peep-toe shoes she had been given - as if a couple of inches would solve all of her problems - and tried not to think of the ridiculousness of upholstering a stool meant for people to stand on in crushed velvet. 

As the lady worked, Hermione’s shoulders dropped. She imagined she looked like a petulant toddler, sulking because she had been denied something she wanted, but she had never been very good at hiding her emotions and today was proving to be rather trying. 

Narcissa had opinions, many, many opinions. That at least Hermione could understand, even admire about her soon to be family, it was a trait she shared with the lady, but as the time wore on, Hermione was beginning to feel her skin pricking, and not just from the excess of pins that had been jutted at her from every direction. 

Narcissa sighed, and Hermione grimaced. “Well, it is beautiful,” she drawled dispassionately, “it would have been perfect if you weren’t so short.”

That was the problem with Narcissa’s opinions that morning; they were never about the dresses. The enormous confections of silk, satin and taffeta remained utterly blameless while Hermione was judged to be lacking in all areas. Narcissa was picking them not to suit Hermione, but clothing the image of the girl she still held in her mind, the one that Draco _ should _ have been marrying. 

So Hermione was relegated to being too short, or too tan; her hair was too exotic, and her hips were ‘excessive’. 

Narcissa tilted her head to the side and gave Hermione an appraising look. “Maybe something a little less fussy around the waist? It might be more flattering?”

Hermione said nothing, the question wasn’t aimed at her, but the lady beavering away beside her. 

Hermione cursed herself for ever agreeing to come along, but her parents weren’t due to fly out from Australia until the following week and Narcissa had only been able to get an appointment for today. Hermione had known she was being manipulated from the start, but she had agreed because she had been pleased Narcissa was showing an interest. She had assumed her soon to be mother-in-law had also wanted a say so in the dress as she had never been that keen on Hermione’s (lack of) style, but now it was clear she had another motive. To get Hermione on her own and to communicate, in the way only Narcissa could, that she still wasn’t forgiven for having her only son fall in love with her. 

Hermione remained motionless as the owner walked around the shop pulling dresses under Narcissa’s direction before coming back and holding them up under Hermione’s chin. Hermione spent her time wondering what she would have for lunch and if it was rude to try and flee after this was over without inviting Narcissa to join her. She hoped not; there was only so much she could take in one day. 

Hermione’s relationship with Narcissa could best be described fluctuating; she was sure the older witch planned it that way, so she never got too complacent. In the beginning, Narcissa was outwardly appalled by her existence in Draco’s life and in many ways that initial reaction never truly went away, rather it got worse the longer they stayed together, and the more serious they become. There were glimmers of hope, moments when it felt like Hermione might have received something like approval, but they were few and far between and had been practically non-existent since Draco had brought her back to the manor and showed his mother the ring that he had brought. 

Narcissa shook her head affectively nixing yet another frock without further explanation before pointing to something in the window. “Maybe we should try the soft pink silk charmeuse. The whites don’t seem to be working.”

“Yes, madam,” the lady readily agreed before marching off back to the stock room to try and meet her new directions. 

Hermione traipsed back to the little cubicle with little enthusiasm and waited until the owner bustled in, collecting one set of dresses and leaving behind another unbelievably large pile. 

Hermione unzipped the back of the dress and let it pool around her feet before searching through the rack to find the one Narcissa wanted her to try next. It was hard to identify. To Hermione, most of them looked the same, and Narcissa often mentioned details like hems and fabrics as if Hermione would know immediately what that meant. She was debating shouting through the curtain for some assistance in separating the identical when suddenly the velvet barrier was wrenched back. 

Hermione jumped to cover herself instinctively. She had been _ very specific _about not wanting to have one of the girls from the shop come in and help her get dressed. While Narcissa had rolled her eyes, Hermione had been determined. She had known it was going to be a trying morning, and the little cubicle was likely to be her only sanctuary, even if she had to share it with twenty-five gowns that in another life could have lived a happy existence as medieval princess costumes. 

Only, it wasn’t a disapproving Narcissa, or an enthusiastic shop-girl standing in the now open expanse of corridor… it was Draco. 

His eyes remained trained on her face as he walked into her little space and pulled the curtain back across. He was unhurried and unapologetic as if his presence needed no explanation. Hermione had never been bothered by his lack of concern more than she was right then, and she stepped back, reaching for the robe she had been left and glaring at Draco as she fumbled with the belt. 

“What are you doing here?” she whisper yelled and Draco cast an eye over the overburdened rail at the side of the room. 

“I wanted to check you were okay.”

“In the changing room?” Hermione returned incredulously. 

Draco was unembarrassed but his brow furrowed. “You’ve been gone for hours, and I know what she can be like. You wouldn’t still be doing this if it was your choice.”

“Maybe I wanted to try on lots of dresses,” Hermione replied with a defensive shrug. “I’m allowed to be girly if I want!”

Draco rolled his eyes. “This was not an attack on your femininity, as well you know. Stop trying to pick a fight to distract me.”

“Says the man who burst into a changing room uninvited.” Draco folded his arms across his chest, and Hermione sagged. “It’s been…. Well, you know how it’s been.”

Draco nodded and stepped closer, holding his hands away from his sides with his palms towards her. It was a half gesture for a hug, one that had come from an argument they’d had over meeting each other halfway that still made Hermione smile, even on the occasions when she was furious with him. 

She walked forward and laid her head on his chest and let him play with the ends of her hair while she took a breath. It was ridiculous, him being there and holding her as she was standing in her underwear and borrowed heels as he was fully dressed, and yet it was perfect. 

“You know, you could just confront her?” Draco offered, and Hermione scoffed. 

“I could also try to evade a shark bite by offering it a glass of wine, but I think I’d still get eaten.”

Hermione felt his half-laugh against her body though he made no noise. “You were never shy about telling me_ exactly _what you thought, and here I am today. She’ll respect you for it.”

“Maybe,” Hermione agreed, “but not today… I’m too tired.”

“Whenever you want.”

Hermione pushed her arms under Draco’s jacket and gave herself a moment to breathe him in, borrowing his strength to get through the day. It was never going to be easy for them; they were never going to be met with universally smiling faces, and yet they were both still there and both still in it. It gave her confidence in a way; if they could stand against all the world and choose each other, she couldn’t see that marriage could throw anything at them that they wouldn’t be able to weather. 

“Hermione,” Draco murmured, and she replied with an inquiring noise. “Please tell me you aren’t planning on wearing any of those dresses.”

Hermione laughed, unfortunately, a little too loud. 

“Draco Malfoy,” Narcissa called, and Hermione groaned. “I believe you owe me an explanation as to why you are here.”

Draco rolled his eyes, pulled up Hermione’s jaw and pressed a hard yet fleeting kiss to her lips. “I promise I’ll go, if my mother thinks I’ve seen your dress she won’t be able to hold onto her anger long enough to twist it into disdain, she will simply throttle me.”

“Okay,” Hermione agreed, missing him already but not letting herself admit it. 

“Dinner later?” he prompted, and she nodded. 

“Yes, but remember Harry’s coming over, with Daphne? We promised last week.”

Draco sighed. “Lucky me.”

“Draco,” Narcissa shouted again. Her voice had risen an octave, and it made Draco’s hand shoot to the curtain. 

“Coming mother,” he replied and gave Hermione a wink before walking out into the corridor. 

Hermione listened to his feet as he retreated and took a long sweeping glance at the rack that was dominating her small space. 

On the other side of the room was one dress, a single one she had managed to pick up before her soon to be mother in law took hold of proceedings. Hermione ran her fingers down the silk length of the bright white dress and then bent to reach into her handbag and pull out a hair tie. She twisted and tugged until all of her curls were piled up onto her head and then she slipped the dress off the hanger. 

It was time to take back control. 


	6. Part Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt (1)Then he had run into Hermione one day, and her reserved civility had goaded him into asking her to dinner. Honestly, he had wanted to see if that would be the thing that would make her shrink away from him. But she had raised her chin with defiance he should have known to look for, and accepted. - I NEED you to include a Diamond prequel chapter that fleshes these three sentences out!  
for WizMonCruWil
> 
> Prompt (2) Can you please do a Diamonds prequel, in which Draco asks Hermione out to dinner and she definitely says Yes, as you so wonderfully put it? I would love to see that fleshed out!  
for Anon

Draco adjusted his scarf as he walked down one of the quieter sub streets off Diagon Alley. He pulled the thick green material up out of the top of his jacket until it was covering his face from the nose down. A little voice inside his head scolded that as he hadn’t bothered to do anything to disguise his distinctive hair, the effort was for nothing. Draco ignored it. He had considered magically changing his hair colour many times; he’d even considered using Muggle dye once or twice, but he never had. When he pulled up his scarf, he could pretend he wasn’t hiding. It would have been harder to sell the pretence if he actually started altering his appearance before leaving the house. 

It was October, and the weather had finally realised it was no longer Summer and was attempting to make up for its tardiness with two weeks of icy rain and grey skies. 

Draco didn’t want to be out at all, but he had promised Daphne he would meet her at a cafe, she apparently had news she couldn’t share by owl. Draco had responded with predictable disinterest but had nevertheless pledged to go. Daphne was no fool. She would have seen through him in an instant. While he might have willingly cut himself off from the rest of the world, Draco took a perverse kind of pleasure in hearing the latest gossip concerning his former classmates. Even when, more often than not, it became clear that whatever their myriad failings, they were all somehow prospering - succeeding, and leaving him further and further behind. 

Draco slid his hands into his pockets and wished he’d brought his gloves. His fingers instinctively rooted around until they gripped around the wand he had stashed there and instantly, Draco felt safer. It was silly to have come this way. He could have apparated straight there, avoiding such a long walk and all of the potential dangers that came with it. 

Draco didn’t care for being out on his own, not since the war. If he had one of his friends with him, he found it rather easy to slip his familiar sneer in place and act as if nothing bothered him, but when he was alone, it wouldn’t stay long enough to be convincing. He felt too vulnerable, too exposed. His shoulders would hunch, and his frame would bend, crouched ready for an attack. It did not make for a comfortable stroll in the autumn winds. 

Draco checked his watch as he turned the final corner, about to congratulate himself on a journey without incident, when it all came crashing down. Dead in front of him, mere inches from his longed-for sanctuary, a shop door opened, and veritable golden girl Hermione Granger stepped out of the rickety-looking greengrocers and onto the small swathe of pavement in front of him. _ Of course, she would shop in that sort of place_, Draco thought snidely. One where the awning was fading and the vegetables were arranged with no discernible system. 

Draco saw the very moment the smile she’d had melted away, she tried to reconstruct it afterwards, but it was a poor imitation of the one she had been throwing over her shoulder, at the man who had gallantly held the door for her. Draco wished the man hadn’t bothered, it might have slowed her down for a couple of seconds, allowing him to pass and both of them to be oblivious to what would have been a near-miss. 

Granger cleared her throat a few times and managed a quiet, “Malfoy,” before rearranging her bags with the awkward kind of shuffling Draco had always despaired of when they were at school. He realised that he’d never seen her with anything less than a gigantic shoulder bag since she was eleven years old. It was a wonder that she hadn’t become lopsided. He asked himself if she even owned a clutch? If she ever went anywhere that would make such a thing a necessary purchase. 

“How are you?” She asked when he didn’t make an effort to respond. “It’s been… a long time.” 

Draco wanted to scoff, but the derogatory exhale of breath wouldn’t form. It had indeed been _ some time _ since he had seen the sainted Hermione Granger, at least in the flesh, but he wasn’t sure when she imagined they had last caught up over tea and crumpets. He hated her for the insinuation that somehow they had once been inside each other’s circles and not pacing around outside of them ready to pounce. Social niceties might have demanded it of her, but that made him even crosser. 

He’d seen her on the battlefield, blood-smeared and full of fear and anger and then again later, crumpled and small. He thought he might have seen her at his trial, but Draco had half-convinced himself he had imagined it, after all, it was only ever a swish of a sea-green skirt and a curl or two that he’d seen at the corner of his eye. 

“Don’t pretend you care, Granger,” he spat with a dismissive wave of his hand and yet he didn’t walk away. They both just continued to stand there, like the proverbial lemons, daring each other to back away first.

Draco didn’t know why he was playing this game with her, Granger’s stubbornness was legendary as was her bravery, she was in every way the epitome of the school house he had raised to loathe since he was an infant. 

She might have been a lioness, all-powerful and cunning with a brute strength that only came from years of honing your skills but Draco wasn’t intimidated. If she was a big cat, he was a hyena, and though he may never have got glory in his role, he always knew, instinctively, when his opponent had met their end. 

Granger’s eyes flared, and then she huffed, _ she actually huffed_. He’d forgotten how easy to rile she was. That had been the beauty of her and her little band of misfits when they had all been a school together, how responsive they were. Draco had spent most of his mid-teens powerless to alter the course of his life as if his efforts were little more than screams in the wind. But with them, _ the golden trio_, he would only ever have to give the tiniest little nudge, and they went toppling over. 

“I was only trying to be pleasant, Malfoy,” she retorted, drawing herself up and standing on her tiptoes. “Lord knows you must recognise manners, even if you don’t pretend to use them.”

Draco sneered. “As if you have any idea of what constitutes manners, given how you were dragged up.”

“Given my filthy Muggle relations, you mean?” she replied with her pert little nose stuck up in the air. “I think it’s time you got some new material, Malfoy. This act is as tired as the bags under your eyes.”

Draco licked the outside of his teeth to stop himself from a rash, careless response. “Why aren’t we being personal, little miss goody two shoes? No need to comment on your appearance, your hair is as ghastly as ever.”

She stepped forward and prodded him in the chest as her eyes retracted to slits, and Draco stopped himself from reaching to seize her wrist. That was the thing about Granger; you could be fooled into thinking she was tougher than she was. Considering her personality, she was actually quite dainty, and oh so breakable. He could break her body, even without meaning too, even as cowardly as he was, but he could never break her irrepressible spirit — _ the damn woman. _

But Merlin, it felt good to spar again. Draco’s friends were too frightened to push him too far. He’d not reacted well at the end of the war, years of unresolved tensions all coming to ahead in a moment.

She’d gotten on to some laboured point about inbreeding when suddenly another person appeared on the little street heading past them and presumably on to their decidedly less complicated life and immediately, Granger shrunk back. Draco flexed his hand as he realised the gulf that had appeared between them and the fire in his chest turned to ice. 

“What’s the matter, Granger, worried someone might see you with me?” Draco seethed, as angry as he’d ever been. _ The bloody hypocrite._ Always going on about _ the rights of the downtrodden _ and she didn’t even have the sense of humanity to stand next to him on a public street. 

“No-”

He took a step closer, bearing his teeth. “We wouldn’t want you to ruin your perfect golden image by being seen associating with the riff-raff.”

“That’s not what I-”

“Please do tell?” Draco spat, “what possible justification can you invent for yourself so you can keep your precious moral high ground?”

She practically hissed at him, and for a moment, he would have sworn her hair swelled. That was the bit he would remember in the most detail, hours later, when contemplating exactly what he had gotten himself into. Her cheeks were pink, and her shopping bags were on the floor wholly forgotten. The look in her eyes was so furious Draco instinctively checked her hands for her wand. 

“I was moving out of the way, okay, your highness? The path is narrow. I was moving so they’d have room and not be blocked by the most awkward run-in I have ever encountered. You wouldn’t recognise the notion because your too full of yourself to think of someone else’s needs at all, let alone ahead of your own. You self important, self-pitying prick!”

For a few moments, there was silence. Draco had the impression Hermione had wanted to tell him off for a_ very _long time. The hair barb probably hadn’t helped. She should probably know by now that he hadn’t meant it, he never had really. But he was a hyena; he knew the weaknesses of everyone even if none of them were really his prey. 

Their meeting seemed at an end, and yet neither of them moved. For himself, Draco didn’t know what to say, Hermione still seemed to be calming herself down if breathing was anything to go by. 

“So, you’re not embarrassed?” he asked before he could stop himself.

“No.”

She answered quickly, not too quickly, but fast and seemingly truthfully. Despite their relative heights, Draco felt small. The longer the silence continued after his question, the more exposed he felt. He felt the age-old need to regain the upper hand, to reclaim some of his dignity before he left the conversation, before he left her thinking of him as some whipped wounded animal. 

“Well, if you’re not embarrassed, why don’t we continue this another time, catch up properly?” he said with a predatory smile. 

It was a significant step-change to the rest of their encounter, and so he wasn’t surprised that Hermione looked so startled. It made him feel like he was back on solid ground, in charge, at least it did until she answered. 

“If you like?” she said, seemingly without a care in the world and began to gather up her bags. 

Draco was incensed by her easy acceptance, but he was far from done. He had never known when to quit. He took a step towards her until he was blocking her frame from the wind and making her hair look a shade darker in his shadow. “I would like,” he said, “how about a date, Granger? What would you say to that?”

Draco waited, he waited for her to shudder in disgust or spit out her refusal, but neither came. She looked around for a moment as if expecting divine intervention before she shook out her curls and raised her head, meeting his gaze squarely. 

“A date sounds _ wonderful, _ Malfoy,” she replied, smiling more sweetly than he had thought her capable of. “Owl me with the details, I shall look forward to it.”

She pulled the lapel of her coat over her throat and marched away before he could say anything in reply. 

Draco was left staring after her. He had the distinct impression she knew precisely what he was about and was not about to be cowed or intimidated. He found himself grudgingly respecting her. He hated her for that too.

Finally, he got to the cafe, and he saw Daphne inside, picking at a seeded bun and looking nervous. At least he had something to say that would distract her from whatever had put her in an anxious mode. He was going on a date with Hermione Granger. In terms of gossip, it was likely to be the most unbelievable thing she heard all year. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: and yes, that is a Jane Eyre reference you spy in here… though Draco is no Rochester and Hermione is CERTAINLY no Jane, I just liked the idea of him thinking along the lines of her unbreakable sense of self, and that story crept in for a moment.


End file.
